Faithful Compass 3: A Service in Belgravia
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: As Sherlock and John attempt to face the momentary normality of planning a civil ceremony, Irene Adler proves that they might still have a few kinks to explore.
1. I give you this ring

**A Service in Belgravia**

Summary:

As Sherlock and John attempt to face the momentary normality of planning a civil ceremony, Irene Adler proves that they might still have a few kinks to explore.

* * *

**Chapter One:**

I give you this ring

A few weeks after the showdown at the pool, Sherlock and John are still dealing with the fall outs, good and bad.

* * *

Being interrogated was tedious. Especially when he couldn't correct them .

"So he blew up the pool?" Inspector Davis asked.

Frustrated by being asked the same tedious question over and over again, Sherlock tipped his head back with a groan. "That would certainly be a valid conclusion. I will say it again; the pool exploded after he left. John and I had just managed to escape-"

"And you, Sherlock Holmes, smart arse extraordinaire-"

"Is he allowed to call me that?" Sherlock asked Lestrade curiously.

Lestrade, who had stared at Sherlock with narrowed eyes for the first hour of this, shrugged. "Don't think that anyone will complain after they've spent five minutes with you," he muttered, stretching his feet out.

"- didn't pay attention to the body?" Davis continued with a glare at Lestrade.

"No," Sherlock said easily. "I was paying attention to John. Who was drowning. Why should I care about some dead body?"

"This from the man that turns up to crime scenes just for the thrill."

"I have a deep sense of civic duty," Sherlock drawled sarcastically.

Opposite him, Lestrade slunk down further in his seat as Davis fixed Sherlock with a steely gaze.

_Do not annoy them, _Mycroft had said as they made their way to Scotland Yard. _Most of them will have their suspicions. Do not make them try to search harder._

"The body," Davis said, picking up the file once more. "Unidentified, male, between thirty and thirty five. Could this have been the bomber? Your 'Moriarty'?"

Sherlock drew in a deep breath. "No. Moriarty was in the same room as the corpse-"

"But he let you go?" Davis asked. "He played a game with you, exploded two bombs according to you, killing in the process, and then just walked away while badly timing his last bomb?"

"He's a madman," Sherlock muttered.

"Why did you take John home? He was tortured for all intents and purposes-"

"I panicked," Sherlock snarled. "It does happen on occasion."

"You panicked so you took him home? Most people would go to the hospital when panicking."

"I am not most people," Sherlock replied, meeting Davis' gaze. "I wanted him safe."

There. Davis sat back with a sigh and Lestrade dropped his hand. Whatever they might think of Sherlock, they all knew John was his priority.

Davis shook his head and ended the interview as Lestrade narrowed his gaze at Sherlock. When Davis stood up, Lestrade remained in his seat.

"Question?" Sherlock mocked as Davis closed the door behind him.

"No," Lestrade said, seeming to come to some internal decision. "None I want the answers to, anyway."

* * *

"They finished nagging you?" Andy asked looking up as Sherlock walked into the flat. Across from him, John looked over, eyes scanning Sherlock's with worry.

"For today," Sherlock murmured as he walked over to John's chair and sat on the arm. It was impossible not to touch him, to dance his fingers over John's wrist, to check his pulse and feel how warm he was. His eyes immediately went to John's chest, trying to work out from the rate and depth of his breathing exactly how much pain he was in. "Have you just been sitting here?" he asked, realising that John didn't have a book in his hands and that the television wasn't on.

"Andy was reading to me," John said, nodding at their friend. "But I'm becoming slightly concerned he can't read as he seems to be making the articles up."

"I'm a better writer than half of these," Andy dismissed. "People would pay good money to hear what you're hearing."

Sherlock watched John squint at Andy and then look up at him. "How likely is it that they will want you tomorrow?" John asked. "I might start jamming wooden pencils in my ears just to escape Andy."

"Not cleaning that up," Andy warned, sounding bored as he continued to read the newspaper. "I hate Brenda, why does she get the scoop? I could talk to artists and dominatrices . They're wasted on her."

"You said gossip was beneath you," John reminded him.

"No. Gossip involving fit women who I want to shag should get beneath me," Andy corrected, folding up the newspaper. "Pay attention, Watson."

Watson.

Turning his head down to John, Sherlock tightened his grip a little. "We are not changing our last names," he warned.

"Could hyphenate," John mused.

Sherlock let out a pained noise. "Must we?" he whined. "Hyphenating just means we couldn't make up our minds and will lead to the childish argument of whose last name should come first."

"Watson has two syllables," John said easily. "Sounds better if it comes first-"

"That's…" Sherlock trailed off when he caught sight of Andy as he blinked and looked up. Andy's mouth dropped ever so slightly and his gaze darted between the pair of them. "…It's like watching a child learn how to deduce," Sherlock said, watching him. "An odd sense of pride and then an equal measure of annoyance that they didn't manage to pick up on the fact that we were talking about rings earlier."

Andy's eyes widened even further.

Accepting that Andy, for whatever reason, wasn't going to move, Sherlock fished out the box he had picked up on his way back and held it out to John.

"To be fair," John said, looking at the box. "I was talking about rings. You were breezing about the flat muttering something about knees." Sherlock watched as John reached out for the box carefully. "We were meant to do this together," John scolded.

"Do you have a time travel device?" Sherlock enquired. "Unless you can find a way to accompany me two and a half years ago then you may have problems. Besides," he added with a sigh. "You're an awful shopper at the best of times without you being tetchy due to your injuries."

John froze and looked up at him.

"And the safety deposit box was on Knee High road," Sherlock added, rolling his eyes. "Really, John, you do need to hone your listening skills. It's pitiful how-"

"You two are getting married?"

No-one he was friends with could be that slow, surely? Wary, Sherlock stared at Andy, hoping he was joking and that his thought process had worked a little quicker than what it seemed.

But Andy was still looking for confirmation and John seemed to be doing his best statue impression rivaling the useless morons who performed at Covent Gardens.

"I'm surrounded by imbeciles," Sherlock muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yes, we are getting married. Yes," he added, turning to John. "I kept the rings."

John blinked and then looked down at the box, stroking his thumb over the lid. "Andy, piss off," he said, seeming to wake suddenly.

"Is he going to go down on one knee?" Andy asked, finally coming around. "That I would pay money to see."

"It isn't a proposal," John huffed. "It's…" he seemed to flounder. "I'll buy you five pints if you leave," he said with a reluctant sigh.

There was amusement in Andy's eyes as he pretended to consider it. "All right, but the cost for my best man duties are way higher than that. And you two cocks better battle it out for me."

Best man?

John nodded. "I'll get the pistols out tomorrow," he promised.

Andy nodded and clapped John on his shoulder as he moved by. "No swimming competitions though," he said with an odd voice as he tried to joke.

John smiled, clearly appreciating the attempt. "Good luck with the kinky lady," he offered as Andy nodded at Sherlock. Over John's head, Andy let a grin creep across his face as he pointed to Sherlock and mouthed the words 'gold', 'payment' and 'best man'.

Panicked, Sherlock waited until the front door shut before he spun to John. "Best man?"

John was looking rather unhelpfully at the box in his hands. "Are you sure you want to use these?" he asked softly.

"We used the same proposal," Sherlock muttered dismissively, clicking his fingers in front of John's face to get his attention. "Best man duties?"

The clicking seemed to work as John looked up and over. "I'm not sure what you're asking me," he said after a moment. "Do you want to know what they do or-"

"Why does he think there will be any 'Best Man'?"

With a long suffering sigh, John rested his arm upon the chair and shifted with a wince to look at Sherlock. "Right," he said slowly. "By no means am I offering a big wedding," John said looking slightly unsettled at the idea. "But…do you want any traditional stuff or do you just want to rock up, grab someone from the street to be a witness, sign the papers and stop off at the morgue for ears."

"Why do I want ears?" Sherlock asked, pulling a disgusted face. "I had ears seven weeks ago, do pay attention, John."

"Yeah, that was the salient point in my question," John muttered.

Sherlock stood and moved to the armchair that Andy had left the paper on. Picking it up, he considered the idea. "I…" he folded his arms, hating that he was unsure. "I want…" He sat down, locking gazes with John.

To his relief, John wasn't watching him with annoyance or frustration but with simple curiosity, a gentle look of understanding on his face. It forced Sherlock to take a breath and attempt to finish the sentimental request.

"I don't want it fit into the day," Sherlock said slowly. "It shouldn't be a trip to the supermarket."

Understanding crossed John's face. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I agree but I'm not so bothered that if you really hate the idea of having guests-"

Guests.

"I don't want it to be another crazy impulsive thing we just did. I want people to know this is serious, that we mean it." Sherlock clenched his jaw remembering the times when he hadn't cared one jot about what people thought. "And it would avoid us being nagged by my mother until the end of time for not letting her attend."

John smiled and nodded, then the smile fell away.

"Oh God," he groaned, lying back into the chair. "That means my mother has to go, doesn't it?"

If there was one single thing that Sherlock had not missed in the time they'd been apart it was John's mother. "She is still with that…the man who made her slightly bearable?"

"Phil? Yeah," John nodded. "Or, we could just give her the wrong day and then tell her she heard wrong."

"Are you serious?" Sherlock asked. "Because I see no problem with that plan."

John laughed and then winced. "We'll see how she goes," he said, considering it again. "God, I'm a terrible son," he murmured shaking his head. "I just hope to God she doesn't give me wedding night advice."

Sherlock shuddered at the idea, feeling more and more relieved for his mother. "Are you ever planning on opening that?" he asked, waving a hand at the box.

John shrugged and turned the box in his hand. "You really kept these?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. "In a box, far away."

The fond smile made Sherlock's heart flutter stupidly as John thumbed the box open.

The curiosity was touching; wedding rings weren't exactly that interesting and men's were even less so. It was hardly as if either of them were flamboyant enough to linger at the shop window of jewellery stores. It was genuine curiosity that had John lifting the box closer so he could study the content, not an act put on for show or worry.

It was comfortable.

Strange, how much he wanted it. Comfortable would usually suggest dull, but John, John was interesting and comfortable and brilliant-

"Are there two metals?" John asked moving his head to try and manipulate the way the light was catching.

"Yes."

There was a long look at him. "Silver and white gold?"

"If that makes you feel more at ease with them then yes," Sherlock smiled.

John blinked and traced a finger over one of the rings.

"The point was to make it hard to see the join," Sherlock added, raising out of the chair and walking over. "Greyson filed it in such a way that-"

"Did you buy this or have it made?" John almost yelped.

Sherlock took the box from him and studied the rings. "Want to try?" he asked. "Your finger may have changed in size a little over the years-"

John gestured at it and Sherlock plucked the ring out, handing it to him.

"God forbid you slide it on," John muttered, his hands clumsy with the action. "I feel so gay," he muttered as he spread his hand and studied the ring upon his finger.

Sherlock sucked in a breath and shot John a piteous look.

"Gay Alf gay not let me suck your cock gay," John explained, throwing him an annoyed glare. He shook his hand suspiciously and the ring stayed put. "Does that mean it fits?" he asked blankly.

Sherlock smiled and pressed a kiss to John's knee as he knelt. "Yes," he said with a nod as he slid his own on.

It did feel exceedingly strange to have the weight on his finger. That said, he would bet it would be worryingly easy to become accustomed to it.

"Fuck," John breathed with a grin. "So this is er…after we get married this is…" he trailed off awkwardly. "Um…what our hands will look like…" he laughed at his own words. "I just…this feels tangible," he said softly.

"Will look like?" Sherlock asked curiously. "Can we not keep them on?"

John stared down at him. "Uh…I don't think so," he said, sounding unsure.

"People have engagement rings."

"Girls have engagement rings," John corrected. "Men…have no money. I think that's how it works."

Sherlock sniffed in derision. "Pointless rule," he muttered, standing up. "Tea?"

"Uh," John's voice called to him. "So we're keeping them on then, just to check?"

"Test run," Sherlock called back.

Yes, he thought as his thumb stroked the ring on the inside of his finger. Very easy to get used to.

* * *

"You'll have to take it off for cases," John mumbled to him as they lay in bed that night.

"You'll hold onto it," Sherlock decided, rolling over to him and touching the bullet John wore. He stroked his finger over the chain and then dipped to John's collarbone.

John caught his hand and pressed a kiss to it. "Just this and the ring," he warned. "I'm not becoming your flaming extra pocket."

Sherlock nodded.

John was showing no signs of sleep. It was the problem at the moment; he wasn't doing enough to feel tired and overcome the nagging ache that the ribs caused him. And, being a doctor, John seemed insistent on taking deep breaths as often as he could, despite the pain it caused.

"Go to sleep," John said softly with a smile. "You need your three hour recharge."

Sherlock sneered at him, unimpressed, and then focused back on tracing John's bones, his ring flashing in the street light.

"I was thrown out of three jewellers," Sherlock admitted.

"Only three?" John asked. "You must have been on good behaviour."

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "The amount of people buying a ring just to apologise for a secret affair was worrying."

"And how many people did you tell this to?"

Eight. "Five."

John scrunched up his face in doubt at that fake number and Sherlock felt a warm flutter in his chest at the idea John could read him. "I'm amazed you didn't get punched," John said with a smile.

"I was," Sherlock rolled onto his back. "Well…I ducked a few. The last one I wasn't expecting; he seemed very placid…it may have been the revelation of the fact that he liked larger women while hand in hand with his fiancé that-"

"Prat," John whined, nudging over a little to rest his head on Sherlock's chest. It was a position they had both started to get used to as it was best for John to sleep on his injured side. "I'm amazed you survived."

"In the end I went to a man who used to forge paintings to pay for his artistic life style. Years ago I used to introduce him to con artists; I don't think a single one of his has been caught. Shocking really; he always liked to see if he could add something in and still get away with it-"

"So a master forger made our wedding rings?" John asked.

"And designed them," Sherlock added, nodding in agreement.

There was a long sigh. "Why does that sound fitting for you?" John said after a moment. "Only you could manage to make it both romantic and fucking weird."

Sherlock smiled as he lifted the arm John was laying on to stroke a hand through John's hair. "It's an impressive talent of mine," he decided. "Not one I had any desire to claim so it must be through sheer natural brilliance."

John snorted, his hand with the ring on Sherlock's chest. Still taken by it, Sherlock reached with his free hand to stroke the metal.

"I'd do it tomorrow," he mused, staring at the ring. "Tonight. Now."

"I know," John said, risking a stretch before hissing and relaxing again. "I just…I'd like to not be wincing at everything when we get married."

Sherlock nodded. "Then we really will have to tell your mother the wrong date."

"Cringing is not wincing," John mumbled. "Cringing is more psychologically damaging."

Amused, Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's hair.

"John," he said after a moment.

"Mm?"

"I will wake you up."

It was a topic he had only just started to dare broach. For the first two days after the pool, John had violent nightmares that were not conducive to one healing from broken ribs. They seemed to be just a blurred mix from the captivity, facing Taylor and from the explosion. John woke from them all and, despite the pain he was in, would usually fling himself into the sitting room or, on one memorable occasion, upstairs.

Sherlock had just about managed to get him down to pacing the room before returning to the bed.

In his arms, John sighed. "Not tired," he said firmly.

"I could tell you more stories. I could tell you how I almost sent Victor's entire family to prison for identity fraud. That might cheer you up."

"Almost?" John asked, sounding unimpressed. "That sounds like it doesn't have a happy ending."

"Or the time I interrupted Mycroft's first date with a dead cat."

John twisted his neck to stare at Sherlock incredulously. "I can't decide which is more…are you trying to tell me a bedtime story?"

"It's what people do, isn't it?"

John shook his head. Though whether it was in reply to Sherlock's last question or to the general idea of being told a story, Sherlock had no idea.

He suspected it might be both.

"You could talk to me about it," he suggested very quietly, unsure as to how John would take that offer.

John's hand drew circles on his chest. Lazy, misshapen circles. "I know," John said eventually. "And…I want to. I will. I just…I need it straight in my own head first."

"I'm not asking for a perfect rendition of events," Sherlock snapped, feeling his temper fray slightly. "I could help you…think," he said hearing his voice trail off.

That sentence had sounded far better in his head.

"I know," John said gently. "And I get it. I'd be crawling up the walls in frustration by now if we were the other way around but…" He turned his head into Sherlock's neck. "This helps."

"Being in bed?"

"Being with you. You can be the most dangerous, stupid man I know but…you're also the safest."

Sherlock smiled at the idea, then scowled. "Stupid?" he asked, lowering his chin to glare at John's nose. "Stupid?"

"In the cleverest possible way," John replied sweetly.

Choosing to accept the change of conversation, Sherlock wriggled in an overly dramatic fashion. "Now I'm not telling you what her reaction was to the cat," Sherlock sniffed.

"I'll get it from Anthea. I'm sure Mycroft has told her by now."

"I doubt it," Sherlock muttered. "He didn't come out of it well either."

"Well then I could tell Anthea and she could torture your brother."

True. "Maybe," Sherlock replied closing his eyes. "But only if you sleep."

"Spoilsport."

* * *

Next Chapter: With Love and Joy - People react to the news of the wedding.


	2. With Love and Joy

**With Love and Joy**

**Summary: Those around Sherlock and John react to news about the wedding.**

* * *

September

**John**

"So they've given up?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Apparently so," he said as he flicked his way through the post, tossing any potential bills in the direction of the bin. "Lestrade suspects something."

"Will he keep quiet?" John asked, easing himself over to the chair then reaching with his foot to try and pick up the bills.

"I'd imagine so," Sherlock replied, sounding far too unconcerned to be believed. They hadn't really broached the subject of Charlie since the yard had started interrogating them about the body found at the pool. John had been able to use the stress of the situation to claim that his memory was blurred, that he'd had a limited view of events. They'd agreed to keep their recounts as vague as possible and not tie themselves to anything.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock paused in his disposal of the post. "I would do it again," he said awkwardly. "He was a vile man and I was given limited choices."

John stared at the bills under his feet then up at Sherlock. "First man I killed was an order. It makes life seem so…" he struggled for the word. "Powerless. And powerful at the same time. It's far too easy to pull a trigger."

Sherlock looked up at him and slowly nodded. "So easy that it almost makes it difficult," he said, sounding confused by it.

If he weren't injured, John would have hugged him by now. Sherlock seemed so adrift in the centre of the living room that John wanted to tug him back to safety, to company.

Instead, Sherlock came to him. Kneeling down, he tugged the bills out from under John's shoe and shook his head. "I was aiming these at the bin for a reason," he scolded.

"They need to be paid," John muttered. "People asking for money do not go away just because you've put their letters in the bin."

"Refunds," Sherlock corrected. "Mycroft has been overzealous this month."

"Why is Mycroft paying the bills?"

Sherlock shrugged, tossing the envelopes properly into the bin. "He likes paperwork."

Freak. "Have you told him?"

"That he's paying the bills?" Sherlock queried.

"That we're getting married."

"I had a lecture," Sherlock nodded. "The day after I picked up the rings. Apparently Anthea's family are catholic and Mycroft has been attending marriage sessions. He believes himself to be something of an expert."

"Really?" John asked, doubtful. "He was giving you advice rather than warning you away?"

The slight head tilt was enough to let John know that the warning had simply been ignored. "He thinks we're rushing," Sherlock said rolling his eyes. "But then Mycroft thinks a brisk walk is rushing so it would seem foolish to give his thoughts on the matter weight."

"And your mum?"

Sherlock squirmed. "Have you told yours?" he accused.

"No, but we've agreed that she's the devil incarnate and needs to be given very selective information. Hence the reason Harry hasn't been told yet."

"They haven't phoned," Sherlock scowled. "Neither of them. After what happened-"

"Ah," John held up a hand. "That's because I haven't told them."

Sherlock glared and folded his arms. "That's exceedingly childish," he muttered.

"Right," John nodded. "Well, I just didn't want to risk either of them deciding to come over to help me recover but if you want them here-"

"You still have your room in Bethnal Green," Sherlock pointed out, looking a little ill at the idea of a Watson invasion. "They could go to that god awful house and see you there."

"Yeah, I'm not keeping that," John said slowly. "I am moving in-"

"You already have," Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "But if you use your old room then they may never know where we live."

Clicking his tongue in amusement, John shook his head at Sherlock. "Just how thick do you think my family is?"

"For the sake of our impending nuptials I believe it is safer if I never answer that question."

Sniggering, John reached out to tug Sherlock close, grinning up at him. "So," he said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's hand. "Do we tell my family and your mother together?"

"As in, tell them as a group or that we should go as a couple in case a witness is needed? "

"The latter," John said firmly, then winced. "I mean...no witness required, I hope!"

With what seemed to be great reluctance, Sherlock nodded. "Together," he sighed miserably. "For better or worse, I suppose. May as well face worse now."

John swiped at him playfully.

* * *

**Alf**

"What the bloody hell am I meant to do with you?" Alf complained as he spotted John in the middle of the bar. "You're not meant to lift anything. Drinks, barrels, your shirt-"

Pointedly, John lifted up the bottle he'd been carrying. There was a slight wince to his movements that Alf spotted. The moron was pushing himself far too much, Alf thought with a shake of his head.

Sherlock had better hang, draw and quarter the bastard who'd done it.

"Vodka?" Alf asked, nodding at the clear liquid.

"Water," John corrected shaking his head.

"Then it's just as useless." Alf sighed as he walked over and sat on a bar stool. "Are you okay?"

"I'm bored," John said, avoiding Alf's gaze as he frowned at one of the pumps and fiddled with it.

"How long until you're back in action?" Alf asked, watching him. John had lost weight again, a fact that Sherlock Holmes was probably spitting feathers over.

"Six weeks." John sounded so miserable about it that Alf nearly smiled. "Six long weeks."

"Spending most of that with Sherlock I take it?" Alf asked.

John nodded, then blinked and looked over at him. "Um...yeah…we're um…we're…" he trailed off and looked at the pumps awkwardly. "We're getting married," he said with a slightly disbelieving tone to his voice.

Married?

Startled, Alf blinked at him and leaned back. "That's quick," he said slowly.

John said nothing, watching him closely.

Why…oh.

Amused and trying not to cringe at the fact that John had known about Alf's…fondness for him, Alf waved a hand in front of his face dramatically. "Oh, why couldn't it have been me," he sobbed before dropping his head to the bar top and letting out a dramatic wail.

"You're a wanker," John declared after a moment, his voice relieved. "A complete-"

"I'll start solving crimes," Alf continued, putting everything he had into not laughing. "I have a club. I can give you drama. And get a good coat."

John's tongue clicked to the side of his cheek and he pressed his lips together in amusement, shaking his head.

"Life isn't worth living," Alf continued to moan. "Dear God, why do you-?"

A hand clapped him on the back, interrupting his commitment to the moment. "Can I switch shifts with Dommo?"

"I'm in the middle of something," Alf sighed, turning to Freddie. "I'm trying to convince John to marry me instead of Sherlock," he wrapped an arm around Freddie's shoulder. "Think I should go down on my knees?"

"Why? You're shit at head and the floor's filthy."

John sniggered. "Really?" he said to Freddie. "And what part of closing last night made you think you didn't have to wash the floor?"

Freddie opened his mouth, darted a glance between them and slumped. "I'll get a mop," he decided, ducking away from Alf's arm and heading off to the closet.

"I love your army meanness," Alf said sincerely.

"That wasn't mean," John leaned against the bar carefully.

Alf chuckled and shrugged, then refocused. "So?"

John darted a look at him. "I…thank you for the offer but-"

"Not that, you tit," Alf said shaking his head. "Though good to know both you and Sherlock knew about that tiny little crush I had. It was the army uniform. I'm such a sucker for-"

John scratched at his head and yawned.

"I meant," Alf said with a mock glare, "How did you two go from 'we'll take it slow and see what happens' to 'fuck it all let's just get married'?"

"It's been almost ten years," John protested. "How much slower would you like us to go? We just…it feels right."

Credit to them, Alf supposed, to take that risk again with each other. "So, how did you ask him?"

John shifted.

"He asked you?" Alf gaped, stunned. "Again?"

"No," John shook his head. "I just…changed my answer."

"Huh," Alf considered that. "In that case there might be a few swans that I might try that line with-"

A bar towel was thrown at his face. Wincing at the smell of Malibu, Alf tossed it on the floor. Opposite him, John rested a hand on the pumps, still fiddling with it.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Why are you already wearing a wedding ring?"

John pulled his hand from the pump as if Alf might try to take it away. "I…it's an experiment," he said awkwardly.

"Freak," Alf decided. "Both for that and coming to work. I seriously can't have you in, John."

"Can I sit on the stool and boss them around for opening?" John asked.

"If it means I can stay in bed later then knock yourself out," Alf shrugged. "Ooh, and you can help boss the minions around while the show sets up."

John did a double take. "Show?"

* * *

**Violet**

John looked unwell, she thought as she ushered the boys into the sitting room. Sherlock was hovering around him, a hand held just shy of touching John as if far too aware that John may need some help at any moment. Occasionally, even as they took their seats, John with a great deal more care than he had ever displayed, Sherlock would brush his fingers against John's in a silent-

There was a wedding ring on her son's finger.

Swallowing back the shock and hurt, Violet looked down at the teapot, even as she allowed her eyes to flicker to John's left hand. Sure enough, the partner to her son's ring was on John's hand.

With a thudding heart, Violet picked up the pot and, trying to focus completely on her task, poured the drink. Sherlock must have been distracted, she thought as she moved onto the second cup. He'd have noticed something by now.

Trying to smile, she handed out the cup and saucer to…to her son in law. What an odd thing to think, she thought as John accepted the tea with a nod. Son in law. She'd assumed after the break up two years ago that she would never think those words-

Though granted, when her boys had been young she'd never considered the word. Her husband would never have approved, whether the marriage was legal or not. And Sherlock probably would have taken an extra amount of pleasure at that fact.

The silence seemed to make both Sherlock and John nervous as they glanced at each other. John was glaring at Sherlock pointedly and nodding his head in her direction as if trying to get Sherlock to open his mouth.

"Or you can tell mine," she heard John murmur.

Sherlock immediately relented and she braced herself, trying to not think about how she had missed out-

"We wish to inform you that we are getting married."

Getting married?

Immediately her eyes fell to their rings.

Self-consciously, John hunched his shoulder up a little, his cheeks turning slightly ruddy as he sighed. "Christ, this is going to be everyone's reaction," he muttered as he took another sip of tea.

But Sherlock lifted his chin. "I do not see why people are so adverse to us wearing these before we marry. It's the safest place for them rather than a drawer."

It took her a moment to process that. "So…you are wearing your rings before you are married?"

Sherlock slumped back into the sofa, folding his arms. John frowned, moving to manoeuvre the tea and stop it from splashing. She watched him throw a glance over to Sherlock and Sherlock simply glared back.

Then stuck out his tongue.

"Child," John muttered, looking back at her. "Sherlock thinks we need to test the rings out to see if any adjustments need to be made. I'm expecting to have my hand dipped in acid any day now."

"Don't tempt me," Sherlock muttered, staring at the window.

Putting that aside…she took a deep breath. They were getting married; there would be a ceremony and pictures.

Strangely she didn't quite feel the excitement she had felt when Mycroft and Anthea had come to tell her the news about their engagement.

"And you've…considered this?" she asked, trying to be delicate. "In depth."

Both of them looked at her, one with a shifting concern and the other with growing annoyance.

"I seem to remember Mycroft got champagne," Sherlock muttered, sitting up to lean forward. "I told you he was her favourite," he added to John.

John tried to smile. "Perhaps your mother is simply good enough to remember that I can't drink at the moment," he said as his hand reached out to squeeze Sherlock's.

But Sherlock remained staring at her, his gaze icy and Violet found herself sighing as she put her cup and saucer down.

"It's very fast," she said carefully.

"It's hardly fast," Sherlock muttered. "Ten years is not-"

"Ah, are we now allowed to include the previous relationship?" Violet asked, surprising even herself with her tone.

John shook his head and moved as if to lean forward. Instantly, Sherlock moved, taking the cup and saucer from John and putting them down on the glass table instead.

"Violet," John started. "I understand-"

"No," Sherlock snapped. "No. We both made mistakes. Or do you think that John's mother was overjoyed at the fact her son was dating a drug addict who was involved with all manner of criminal activity?"

Drug addict.

Criminal.

They'd never really used those words before. Swallowing, Violet opened her mouth to reassure him in some way; he'd come so far and he didn't deserve to be continually labelled. "You didn't leave him," she said firmly.

"I should have," Sherlock snapped.

Next to him, John glanced over in surprise and murmured something that she couldn't hear. A flicker of a rueful smile crossed Sherlock's face as he rolled his eyes at John.

And relaxed again.

"You cannot blame me for having some concerns," Violet said, feeling slightly unbalanced by their interaction. They were so calm with each other.

It was a stark difference from how they'd been before.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Sherlock asked, his temper skyrocketing again. "Does she think I'm stupid?" he asked turning to John before turning back to Violet. "That I haven't considered every angle of this? Or is it my deep yearning, crushing need to be loved that has made you believe I'd get married just for the sake of frolicking around a registry office?"

Violet glared at him. "I am not saying that I think you two are ill-suited. I am saying that you have not been a couple again for very long and getting married is-"

"We've set a date for March," John said quietly, looking slightly amused.

March?

Violet had envisioned some haphazard ceremony next week in which Sherlock rushed the registrar through the words and then ducked off for some case. March sounded…formal, proper.

Thought out.

"That's…that's seven months away," she said, completely ignoring her own rule to never say anything quite so obvious to either of her sons.

Was it her imagination or did John look tickled?

"Don't start," Sherlock muttered, glaring at them both. "John refuses to see the logic in waiting until then."

"You'd would have wanted the wedding earlier?" she asked John, in surprise. If anything she'd have thought it would have been the other way around.

"I wanted December," John replied. "Enough time to get things sorted, for me to be in better health. But no, December is too jovial. Too many people will be in a celebratory mood."

Next to him, Sherlock shuddered.

"And January?"

"Cases," Sherlock explained seriously. "People put far more thought into crimes after Christmas. I imagine that most have nothing else to do but plan while enduring family gatherings. And the amount of revenge killings-"

"Sherlock," John murmured.

"And I would rather not have to choose between my wedding day and a delightful case. They tend to run into February and then of course there's Valentine's Day-"

"Too romantic?" Violet asked, starting to see why John had looked so amused.

"No, good crimes again," John explained. "It's a wonderful time of the year."

Exchanging a smile with him, Violet sighed. "So is there a specific date in March?"

Sherlock nodded.

Then frowned and looked slightly panicked before glancing at John.

"Go on," John said calmly.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he shrugged. "It's at the start of the month," he said.

"Yeah," John nodded. "The seventeenth sounds like the start of the month," he said, his lips twitching in an amusement Violet recognised from years of marriage.

There was a flicker of surprise on Sherlock's face. "Are you sure?" he said, looking suddenly wary.

Even Sherlock had to know that forgetting the wedding date wasn't quite a good thing.

"Yes. I listened."

Her son didn't seem convinced.

The seventeenth of March.

Slowly, she sipped her tea again, feeling oddly at peace with it.

* * *

**Greg**

Found the body there his arse.

Not for the first time, Greg felt like groaning into his desk as the file came up. Again.

John Watson, injured, captured and half drowned. A dead body. A missing criminal mastermind, an explosion and Sherlock Holmes.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that if John had been toyed with, played with and injured then of course dead bodies would start to follow.

As it was, Greg didn't know whether to be insulted by Sherlock or annoyed.

Both John and Sherlock had killed for each other now. And both times Greg had turned a blind eye.

He was an idiot.

There was the ruling, one that backed up Sherlock's claims and closing the case. All he had to do was sign to it in agreement as one of the investigating officers and it would be done with.

* * *

The landlady let him in. In his opinion Mrs Hudson was a saint sent from up above to deal with those two every day.

"Boys," she called up the stairs. "You have a visitor."

A reluctant grin crossed Greg's face as the sweet natured call reminded him of being twelve and knocking for his mates to come out and play.

The grin was wiped away when Sherlock came out and met him in the landing.

"Is it done with?" Sherlock demanded, closing the door behind him.

"Can we not do this inside?" Greg asked.

"John's in there," Sherlock said dismissively. "Tell me first-"

Something was pointedly thrown at the door on the other side. Sherlock glanced back once and then turned to Greg with a demanding look on his face.

"Was the body Moriarty's?" Greg asked quietly.

"No, I told you-"

Greg let loose a long, loud sigh. "I didn't write John up."

It seemed to take a moment for Sherlock to follow the logic. Softening, either at the memory or towards Greg, Sherlock stepped back a little. "That would never have gone to court. John did it to save me."

"He was in far more danger the other night than you were then." Greg scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "Why the hell you decided to lie-"

"I brought him to the pool and shot him," Sherlock said in a strange tone. "How many people do you think would believe I did it simply because Moriarty told me to?"

Jesus. Hearing it actually said was…it felt odd not to reach for his cuffs at the confession. "You were forced. If he was a stranger-"

Sherlock looked away. "The less you know the better," he said, shaking his head.

It hadn't been a stranger?

Who the hell had it been?

It wasn't his nature not to ask. But even as he opened his mouth, Sherlock glared at him. "Inspector," he said in an annoyed tone. "Unlikely as it is to come out, believe me, your acting ability is horrifically useless. A genuine reaction may save your job."

Surprised, and a little touched by the words, Greg tilted his head. "Never knew you cared," he teased, trying to change the subject.

"Of course I care," Sherlock muttered in annoyance. "You're the only one that routinely calls me onto crime scenes."

Ah. Of course. Greg nodded. Sherlock Holmes did have his priorities after all. "Right," he said shaking his head. "Then I need a pen to sign this and we can all get on with things."

Sherlock glanced back at the door and nodded, opening it and leaving it wide open so that Greg could follow him.

John was sat in the armchair, his eyes narrowed as they came in, the paper forgotten upon his lap.

And a ring-

Stunned, Greg whirled to look at Sherlock. "You're married?"

"No," John said, sounding annoyed. "We're engaged…" he trailed off and glared at Sherlock. "It's your bloody idea to wear them before we get married. You explain," he added with some frustration.

Sherlock looked skittish. "Experiment," he said with a shrug as he found a pen and thrust it at Greg.

"Engaged?" Greg asked, looking between them.

John nodded.

For a moment, all Greg could see were the two morons that had stood in the station years ago. The drug addict he'd arrested for walking into his crime scene and the tired, grumpy boyfriend that had draped himself over the desk as he moodily answered Sherlock's release form.

Greg clicked the pen. "You want an engagement present?" he asked, leaning down to sign his name. "There," he said, as he scrawled his signature in ink.

When he looked up, John was watching him with concern. "If-"

"No more shooting people," Greg said, letting Sherlock read what he'd just signed.

John blinked at him and then his gaze drifted to Sherlock who was ignoring them both now in favour of scanning the document.

"He's lucky to have friends like you," John said quietly.

Greg waited for the correction. But either Sherlock agreed or wasn't listening because no correction came.

"It wasn't just for him," Greg said slowly.

John looked surprised, but pleased. "What are you doing on March 17th?" he asked.

* * *

**Sherlock**

The ring caught the light as he twisted it around his finger.

He didn't want to take it off.

On his shoulder John's head moved, probably stirring from the morning light that streamed through their curtains.

Sherlock waited. Waited until he heard John wake enough to remember to take a deliberately deep breath and hiss at the pain.

Then he ducked his head down, placing small kisses along John's face. Moving down the curve of his forehead and tracing the bones with his lips until he found soft cheeks littered with rough stubble.

Then lips.

Sherlock twisted so that John didn't have to, bending to keep their lips together as they kissed deeply, enjoying the laziness of it all.

John was going to be his husband.

Smiling into the kiss at the idea, Sherlock smoothed his hand down John's torso, lightening his touch so as not to put any pressure on John's ribs. His hand found the waistband of John's pyjama bottoms and he hesitated.

They simply hadn't gone down that road yet. Before Moriarty's game they had rarely shared a bed with each other; usually only doing so when they crashed together after a late night or a case.

How many years had it been since he had touched John like this?

Sherlock rubbed his thumb across John's hip thoughtfully. Maybe-

There was a loud knock at the front door which he ignored, continuing to kiss John. Then-

"John!"

Sherlock over balanced at the sound of Harry Watson's furious voice, throwing out his hands to avoid crashing into John and hurting him.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," John groaned. "Now? She picks now?"

Sherlock propped himself up to glare at John. "You told her?"

John opened his mouth and winced "I…told a friend who might have told her friend who might have told Clara who-"

Sherlock pushed himself up and off the bed, reaching out for his dressing gown. "Deal with her."

"You said-"

"I said we'd tell her together. My part is done," Sherlock argued. "She knows."

John sat up awkwardly, wincing as he did. "Then by all means, show her in here."

"I-"

"John!" Harry sounded as if she were in the flat now. "Sherlock? Has he broken his fucking ribs?"

Ah.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Shame," John said, sounding amused. "Sounds like your part still isn't done."

For better or worse.

If John could put up with him inviting criminal masterminds into their lives, Sherlock could deal with the Watson family.

* * *

Next Chapter:

**Chapter 3: I choose you**

With a date set, both Sherlock and John are helped/annoyed by people trying to be helpful and one of them experiences cold feet as Sherlock takes his first case since John's injury.


	3. I choose you

I choose you

With a date set, both Sherlock and John are helped/annoyed by people trying to be helpful and both experience cold feet as Sherlock takes his first case since John's injury.

* * *

The sight that greeted Sherlock as he stepped out of his room was not a pleasant one.

There were boxes in the living room.

Boxes that signified this was it. John had given up that spare room in Bethnal Green and now officially lived at 221b Baker Street.

With his fiancé.

Sherlock eyed the boxes, unsure why he found them so unsettling. His thumb stroked over the band on his third finger, still finding it a source of comfort despite the situation that was unsettling him.

"They aren't decorations," John pointed out as he walked back into the room. "You could… I dunno…unpack them."

"Your ribs are close to being healed," Sherlock murmured. "You could attempt to move them out of my way."

Though if he tried, Sherlock would wallop him one.

He hated being in love; logic simply flew out the window when dealing with John. Unimpressed by his own fickle thought process, he glanced over at John to find the man was watching him with a narrowed gaze. Annoyed, Sherlock raised a challenging eyebrow.

"You need a case," John said decisively.

He needed the boxes to go away. They were an obstruction. With a last derisive look at the objects, Sherlock turned and stalked over to his husband to be who was still giving him a strange look.

It was almost as if John could see the chaos of maddening thoughts that were echoing across Sherlock's mind.

That thought was equally stupid.

Needing to…to somehow get rid of the confusing, nagging worries, Sherlock ducked his head to John's and kissed him. A nipping playful kiss that had John groaning into his mouth within seconds, making Sherlock smirk in success as John's hand reached up to fist at his shirt, pulling it tight across his bicep.

The bruises across John's ribs were still vivid, though a far less alarming shade than they had been. It had been fascinating to track the colour of his skin as the bruises had started to form, then fade, leaving few darker splotches where the impact had been the most severe. John was moving a lot easier now, sleeping better.

"I have to go to work," John murmured against his lips, interrupting Sherlock's mental diagnosis.

Sherlock hummed his complaint into John's mouth. "Too early," he murmured.

"The surgery?" John pulled back. "I'm in danger of being late as it is."

Ah, the surgery. Sherlock hated the surgery. John was a fill in for a few in the area and there was never any warning or plan. It was frustrating.

"You're working tonight," Sherlock said, drawing back.

"I'm sitting on a stool and bossing people around for four hours as they prepare to open," John corrected, reaching for his jacket. "It's hardly taxing."

Sherlock sighed and turned back to the boxes, listening to John's keys rattle as he put them in his pocket. "What am I meant to do?" he huffed.

"You could unpack these," John said, sounding doubtful even as he spoke. "Or bug the yard for a case."

No. He'd end up on some dull, obvious murder, eventually annoying Lestrade which would mean Sherlock would be less likely to be called if there was a truly interesting case.

"I'll be going straight to the club," John said as he walked to the door. "You could pop in, eat with me there?"

Sherlock nodded. "Perhaps," he said, still eyeing up the boxes.

"Right."

* * *

They were living together.

The boxes were proof of it. Irrefutable proof that John was staying.

They'd done it once before, Sherlock remembered. Almost two months of waking up with John, of easy sex and eating in bed. Lazy mornings of just touching and tea, evenings of rushing out, laughing and dancing.

Fights.

Moving out.

That hadn't been unexpected; John had always intended to move out as he had just been staying with Sherlock for the summer. This seemed somehow different. John didn't have a date to leave, there were no letting agencies phoning up, no flats being shoved under Sherlock's nose for him to agree or disagree with.

This was to be permanent.

Sherlock stroked the ring on his finger again. Marriage was meant to be permanent as well, Sherlock had not proposed with the intention of it not lasting. And, strangely, it was some comfort that John had gone into everything with his wide eyes open; Sherlock had no doubt that if John had reservations they would not be in this situation.

Why did the idea of living together bother him? They'd been doing it since they had become engaged…

The boxes were a commitment.

So was the bloody ring.

Why was it the boxes that bothered him?

It was stupid and foolish to feel this way, he thought as he made his way into the kitchen, feet echoing with a determined step upon the floor. Armed with one of the knives from the block, Sherlock stalked forwards and slit one open.

There were some medical textbooks, a few DVDs and-

Sherlock sighed as he reached in and picked up the folded plastic pack, recognising the dress uniform inside. With his thumb, he stroked the plastic as he remembered the dinner they had gone to celebrate John becoming an officer.

They'd joked about Sherlock's brief stint in the military; the bargain that Sherlock would tell John how he had been recommended for discharge once John made Captain.

He never had.

Soldier, doctor, bar tender, assistant.

Husband.

Sherlock stood with the uniform, inspecting it at full length. With a long breath, he turned to hang it up.

The Bond DVD's he left in the vain hope they might rot in the box.

* * *

John had never been so fucking confused in his life. He sat next to Alf as the rehearsals went on, trying to not look like some wide eyed innocent.

"Would you-"

"In a second," Alf said, his eyes firmly fixed on one of the dancers who had quite possibly the best legs John had ever seen on any person living.

"And the fact they're dressed like women-"

"They still have dicks," Alf replied sounding entranced. "My god the things I would do to him."

"Him or her?"

Alf shook his head. "Don't start questioning the pronouns. My rule: find out the name and just use that."

John nodded slowly.

"You do realise," Alf said as he took a sip of the cocktail he had whipped up earlier. "That if you sit here looking as awkward as you do you are going to be teased?"

John glanced over at him.

"You're fucking bisexual," Alf muttered. "Cock or pussy, why do you care?"

John shifted. "I just…I'm adjusting. I can't believe you never dragged me to a drag show before now."

"The last time I introduced you to something I ended up with Sherlock breathing down my neck and shooting me death glares. Not even for you would I risk that again."

"What if I asked you to be my best man?"

Alf actually froze. Slowly, as if in deep shock, he turned to look at John. "Did you just-"

John nodded.

"I…I'd have thought Andy or Mike-"

"Nah. Sherlock stole Andy years ago. And Mike's a good friend but…it's you I come to bitch to. And you did encourage me to…" John waved his hand at the club. "Two nights here and I got a blow job from Sherlock so you did something helpful."

"Two nights here and you got into a fight with Victor Trevor," Alf corrected.

John shrugged. "Still…you're my first pick."

Alf slowly grinned and nodded. "You just want me to let you have the reception here free of charge," he said as he took a sip.

"Violet wants a posh hotel**; **she's offered to pay for it."

Alf pulled a face and turned to look at John. "Will Sherlock approve of me being best man?" he asked carefully.

"Yeah," John said looking back at the show as the music started up again. "Just…don't go wild on the stag night."

"Oh," Alf breathed suddenly sounding as if Christmas has arrived. "Stag night…fuck this is going to be epic," he decided, sitting back with a smug smile.

John sighed and took another sip of his drink. "Can…as my best man I need some advice."

"Wedding night worries?" Alf asked in a mocking voice.

"Sherlock's getting cold feet."

Alf put his drink down. "Don't be a tit, John. Sherlock's wanted you with a ring on your finger for years." He paused and sniggered. "His ring anyway-"

John rolled his eyes. "I moved my stuff over last night and…he was looking at those boxes as if they came with a white picket fence and two point five child."

Alf sighed. "People wobble. He'll get over it or he won't."

John pulled a face. "That's shit advice," he complained. "You are crap at this," he muttered into his drink.

"Sorry, no, you're right. Sherlock will respond well to loving cuddles and reassuring words spoken in sweet whispers late at night. Because he'll love the insinuation that, after wanting this for so many years, you think he wants to back out."

John narrowed his gaze and tapped his fingers on the bar before relenting. "So I just wait?"

Alf shrugged. "Try it. And if it all falls through I will take my best man duties very seriously and see you through the difficult time."

"You're such a giver," John muttered.

"Aren't I just!"

* * *

When John returned to the flat it was obvious Sherlock had a case. Mainly because it looked as if Sherlock had been in the middle of organising John's boxes and then had dropped everything to hunch over a laptop, typing away at the speed of light.

Still, at least he'd tried, John thought as he stepped over the debris of his things.

"Sherlock?"

"Busy," came the monotone response, the speed of the keys never faltering.

Bending was a problem still. Frustrated, John looked down at his medical books, trying to keep his temper. If Sherlock started pacing they'd be done for.

In the end he started to toe them to the side, trying to clear a path for when Sherlock leapt into action. It was only when he realised the repetitive tapping sound was starting to slow that John turned to look at Sherlock who was eyeing him up suspiciously.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, as if John were the thickest person on the planet.

"Clearing space."

"Are you under the impression I cannot cope with the idea of stepping over a book?"

"Well," John turned to him fully. "You couldn't cope with moving them from a box to a shelf so I wasn't sure if taking a nimble step would be too much for you."

Sherlock sniffed as he looked back down at the laptop. "You cannot cope with the idea of prioritising. I have a man's health at risk here and my methods will do far more to correct it than anything in those books which, you may have noticed, have come to no harm while on the floor."

Lifting his hands in surrender (and temporarily forgetting that doing so would not help his still recovering ribs) John turned to the kitchen.

He'd seen Sherlock in this mood before: pedantic, clipped and dismissive. It was his attitude when someone interrupted him while he was working on an important part of a case and, as annoying as it was, he knew he shouldn't take it personally.

Despite the timing.

Cold feet? John glanced back at the boxes trying to take some comfort in the fact that Sherlock had started to unpack them.

Stupid really, he'd given Sherlock far more cause to worry about his commitment than Sherlock had given John.

Sherlock had been patient, had taken a leap of faith with him. He really should do the same.

"Do you want to talk it through?" John called back.

"How much exposition do you need about the safety of your books-"

"The case," John specified as he pulled the mugs out. "You blethering idiot," he muttered under his breath.

"Perhaps we should discuss the fact you think, in addition to me abusing your belongings, I am now also deaf."

John flicked the kettle off and returned to the living room, staring down at Sherlock who slowly looked up and met his eyes, fingers still flying over the keyboard.

John tapped his foot.

"Start again?" he offered after a minute's thought.

Sherlock's fingers stopped as he stared intently at John. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly.

"Good afternoon John, I have a case and am well aware of where the books are on the floor."

It did little to improve John's mood. "Nah," he decided. "You're being a pedantic wanker and if you want me to shut up or go away then say so, otherwise stop picking a fight."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze and stood up in one smooth movement. With a sneer at John he lifted his coat from the peg and stomped off down the stairs.

"Well," John muttered to the living room. "At least you picked one."

* * *

"Is Mr Holmes there?"

John yawned as he stared at the muted television, cradling the phone in between his neck and shoulder. "No, sorry, he went out a few hours ago. Can I help?"

"It's Percy."

That hardly helped. "You're a client?"

The man at the other end of the phone spluttered and John felt something tighten in annoyance inside of him as he switched off the television.

"I…well, I suppose -"

"Have you employed him for a case?" John asked, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.

"Well…mates rates and all-"

Mates rates?

"Did you say Mr Holmes?" John queried.

"I…yes…well of course-"

John ignored the rest as he sat back, frowning and trying to rack his brains as to who the hell Percy was. The accent was public school boy…Percy….Percy…P…

"Phelps?" John asked suddenly as an old memory stirred slightly.

"I…yes?"

They'd been teasing each other once about their backgrounds; or rather John had been teasing Sherlock about his wealthy roots and Sherlock had humoured him. Percy Phelps' name had come up only because Sherlock had admitted that, at school, he had been a complete and utter shit and had used his classmates as experimental practice for future endeavours.

Percy Phelps had been conned at the age of eighteen and Sherlock had, for the sake of warding off boredom, found the con artist and conned back the money.

Apparently, Percy was one of the most gullible men alive.

"Sorry, he did mention you," John said slowly. "Did you have a message you wanted passed on?" he asked as he reached for the pad and pencil.

"Well I just….see the thing is…I have a new suspect."

John looked up at the ceiling trying to picture Sherlock's face as he was told this information. He couldn't decide whether Sherlock would be amused or irritated by the idea that someone had spotted a suspect and thought he couldn't. "By all means," John said, trying to keep the laughter out of his voice at the image in his head.

"Well," Phelps begun and John rubbed his hand over his forehead, sure that if he heard the word 'well' again he would kill something. "The thing is, I found out something about my fiancée's brother yesterday and it's been playing in my mind."

Christ, he was going to get the man's life story here. John twirled the pencil around his fingers and tried not to sigh in annoyance.

"He's nice."

Phelps said it as if John should instantly agree that the brother was indeed a suspect.

John didn't even know what the poxy crime was.

"Nice?" John asked doubtfully. "That's not usually a reason why people are suspects. Is he too nice? Fake nice? I don't-"

"Oh dear heavens old chap. I mean he's…" Phelps hesitated. "Otherwise inclined."

John made a confused noise. "Sorry, what is the crime?"

"Theft," Phelps said without hesitation. "And Jack, he's well-"

John clenched his hand on the pencil.

"-he plays for the other team."

John was just about to groan in annoyance when suddenly he put the phrases together. If he stopped looking for what the crime was and just listened to the phrases-

"Are you trying to tell me that…uh…" he racked his brain for the name. "Jack, is gay?"

"Well…yes."

John waited.

And waited.

"And?" John said slowly. "Is there more as to why he's a suspect?"

Phelps made an annoyed sound as if it were John who was at fault. "Think about it old chap. They're deviants."

John pulled the phone away from his mouth and covered his lips with his other hand as he struggled not to laugh. The moron sounded so ridiculously concerned about it that while part of him wanted to hiss and spit down the phone in sheer fury, most of him found the attitude just fucking hilarious.

There were benefits to being friends with Gay Alf.

He couldn't help it.

"I'll pass that along," he said, not quite managing to contain his giggles.

"I'm serious," Phelps said, sounding a little cross now. "You don't understand what they get up to."

John sniggered again.

"They…they do things that decent men shouldn't do-"

John broke into peals of laughter.

"I will be speaking to your employer about your attitude towards me," Phelps said, sounding frustrated. "We're old friends. Mark my words you'll be lucky if you have a job this time tomorrow."

John opened his mouth to tell Phelps to mention to Sherlock that they needed some lube while he was at it, but the words suddenly died on his lips.

He'd worked for the army and, while for the most part he'd been lucky with people's attitudes, he knew how hard it could be when someone wanted to make life difficult. This wasn't a mate of Sherlock's that John could tell to go fuck himself, this was a client.

This was Sherlock's work. His livelihood and love.

And just like that the amusement faded away and frustrated anger took its place.

"Do you have his mobile number?" John asked, his voice completely changed.

"I'm glad to see you are taking this seriously," Phelps said with a level of arrogance that made John want to reach through the phone and wring his neck. "He has not picked up the phone but mark my words I will be leaving him a message about this conversation."

John looked down at the ring on his finger.

"I would expect nothing less," he said tightly.

* * *

"Client called," John said as Sherlock walked back in.

Sherlock said nothing as he dumped his things on the table and walked into their room.

"Right," John said to the television as he stood and made his way up to the spare room. "Check your voicemail," he shouted to Sherlock as he walked up the stairs.

He had just settled into bed when he heard Sherlock's furious voice drifting up the stairs. Not loud enough to make out the words but enough to let John know that he was angry. Curious, John got back out of bed and made his way downstairs.

"-you seem to be under the mistaken impression that I have to do as you say," Sherlock was snarling down the phone. "I have no intention of solving your case-"

Sherlock paused and John leaned against the door frame, admiring his fiancé's back.

"-perhaps the reason my assistant was so rude to you was because he's been my partner in deviancy for almost ten years. And given that I've watched you play soggy biscuit at school I would suggest the next time you attempt a thought process that you should consider what other stories I can circulate among your friends, the least not being the fact that you lost official naval documents because you were engaging with a prostitute while your fiancée was ill. It's the sort of story the Sun would run a front page edition of. And oh dear," Sherlock said, his voice dripping with content. "The document seems to have gone live on the internet. What a pity."

And with that he tossed the phone onto the sofa and stood with his hands on his hips.

"So you got the voice message then?"

Sherlock nodded. "Message?" he asked mildly. "He was fearful I had accidently employed the wrong sort as my secretary."

Secretary?

"And the documents?" John asked, feeling irked at the label.

"Miraculously, after three months of not being posted online seem to have suddenly found their way there," Sherlock answered innocently, sounding as if he were a thousand miles away.

John nodded to himself. "I'll leave you to it," he said quietly.

"He seemed to think he'd won," Sherlock said, still not turning. "With you. Apparently you had deferred to your betters at the end. Any idea why he would think that?"

John turned back and sighed. "It's your business," he said slowly. "Not mine. I can't out you to every-"

Sherlock turned looking baffled. "Out me?" he asked, his tone incredulous. "Out me?"

"You have clients that come from that world, that come from all walks of life and-"

"And if they dislike the fact that I am marrying you then they can suffer without my help," Sherlock snarled.

"What if the cases are interesting?"

Sherlock gaped at him.

"Oh go to bed, you're being ridiculous," Sherlock snapped. "And incidentally, in case it had escaped your attention, our bed is there," he said, jabbing a finger at their room. "Not up there."

"I'm trying to give you space," John shouted at him. "So you can adjust to that," he said, jabbing his own finger at the boxes.

"I am adjusting to 'that'," Sherlock snarled, "because this time you are not going to leave and believe me, John, given our history that is a rather baffling concept to get my head around. It is a concept not helped by the fact that you are pulling away from me to give me 'space'. I do not need space. If I need space I have a front door to walk through."

"You didn't use it earlier," John yelled.

"You had just walked through the door," Sherlock bellowed at him. "Even I am aware that getting up and leaving as someone enters a room is considered rude."

"Oh," John yelled, suddenly faltering in his anger. "Well…you dropped my books on the floor."

"You brought Bond DVDs into the flat," Sherlock argued back. "Do not think for one instant we will be watching those."

"Fine," John snapped.

Sherlock nodded and then it was awkward.

Painfully awkward.

John eyed him up carefully. "Alf said I should give you space," he muttered. "He said cuddles and reassuring words would be stupid."

"Cuddles?" Sherlock sneered. "The word cuddles was used? Have you met me?"

John kicked at the carpet. "I don't…" he folded his arms. "Once upon a time I would have used sex to help this."

Sherlock tilted his head. "I have no objections to that."

John smiled weakly. "Think we're ever going to have it again?" he tried to joke.

"It's not a requirement, John."

John winced. "It's important," he said seriously. "If for no other reason than it gives you something to do after a fight."

Sherlock's lips twitched.

"So you haven't got cold feet?" John asked, stepping forward.

"Maybe," Sherlock said reluctantly. "A little. We've had numerous setbacks. I suppose part of me thought there always would be something in the way."

That stung a little but in all fairness, it wasn't as if it was without precedent. "We can wait a little longer-"

Sherlock shook his head. "March is long enough," he said, meeting John's gaze.

"Ah," John stopped close enough that he could have reached out and touched Sherlock. "So all those reasons-"

"Are true," Sherlock defended. "They are very good excuses."

Fair enough. John reached out and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's lips, humming in pleasure at the casual ease of it all. "So what was it that sent you through the roof with Phelps?"

"His future brother in law," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Explained why he had stolen the documents and why he hadn't posted them. Then when Phelps called…" he hesitated. "He said you were the wrong sort and I thought he meant common-"

"Thanks," John muttered, amused.

"It took me very little time to gather what he meant. By that time I was already yelling at him," Sherlock looked at the phone. "You are aware that you have cost me fifty thousand pounds."

John blinked. "I…wow…we could have had the most flamboyant wedding in the history of gay weddings for that."

Sherlock sniggered. "We could have sent him a thank you note complete with pictures of his money being well spent."

John laughed and stroked Sherlock's curls back. "We could have invited him and had him as the guest of honour-"

Sherlock pulled a face. "He'd have ruined the day."

John sighed and looked at the laptop. "Did you really post the documents online?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock pulled away to retrieve his phone from the chair. "I gave them to Mycroft."

John blinked down at the internet screen and nodded. "I'd forgotten that your brother isn't always a complete dick," he said as Sherlock moved around the room.

"He does make it hard to bear that in mind, though he has redacted a lot of the document," Sherlock admitted as he picked up some of the-

Books.

Softening, John watched him fondly. "You don't need to do that now," he said gently. "Come to bed."

"I can-"

"Sherlock," John said firmly. "Please, come with me to bed."

Sherlock spun.

He wanted to try, John thought as he took a deep breath. For Sherlock, he would always want to try.

* * *

Next Chapter: To have and to hold - John and Sherlock have to face up to their 'bedroom' issues!


	4. To have and to hold

To have and to hold

Kissing Sherlock was always brilliant.

John wasn't exactly sure what it was about Sherlock and kissing, all he knew was that in their time apart he had never managed to find anyone that was as good at kissing as Sherlock was. No-one who could make his heart thump a manic beat or sigh in pleasure. There was no-one else who, just with lips and tongue, could make John want to intertwine them in anyway just to ensure that he would never have to stop kissing them.

It wasn't just the technique, though that was appreciated, was also the knowledge that John had Sherlock Holmes in his arms. That Sherlock had been carefully bracing himself above John, slowing down to gentle brushes of lips when John struggled to keep up because of his fucking ribs. It was the fact that he would never have dreamed of kissing Sherlock without smoothing his thumb over some part of Sherlock's skin, a reassuring, pleased touch.

Intimacy.

John curled a hand into Sherlock's hair as the man moved down, brushing soft lips across John's jaw, down the hollow of his throat, hands wandering to undo John's shirt. Feeling pleasantly buzzed, his lips tingling from the kisses, John let his own hands drift to Sherlock's buttons.

There was no complaint or murmur of annoyance from Sherlock. Instead, he obediently moved, allowing John to take off his shirt and dump it on the floor.

"Why can you dump my shirt on the floor and yet I can't dump your books?" Sherlock muttered against the skin of John's belly.

"I can stop and pick it up," John offered as Sherlock reared back up to steal another kiss.

"You could stop?" Sherlock asked sounding curious.

"Maybe," John teased. "Convince me otherwise."

There were nerves behind Sherlock's gaze as he reached his hand down to the pyjama bottoms John was wearing. His thumb smoothed over the band, grazing sensitive skin that had John hyper aware of his touch.

"I would," Sherlock said, suddenly serious. "If you asked I would."

Not really wanting to go down that path, John smiled and reached up for a kiss. "Finally tamed you to do household chores then, have I?" he asked.

Sherlock's smile was tight, forced, but he seemed to accept the avoidance of the topic. Instead, he swooped down as his hands tugged at John's pyjamas; his mouth opening.

It was bliss. Soft and careful, tentative and welcoming. The hand on his hips stroked reassuringly and John swallowed, letting out a shaken breath.

Sherlock.

He opened eyes he hadn't realised he'd closed, needing to see that it was Sherlock down there. So many times he had longed for Sherlock in the middle of this act. There had never been a happy medium when he'd been with someone else; slow had given him time to create an empty fantasy that had made the separation hurt more afterwards and rough had given him flitters of moments to wish otherwise.

It was Sherlock.

He needed to see, to see Sherlock's face, his eyes as  
he did this. He tried to reach down to encourage Sherlock to tilt his head up, not really wanting to ask and risk it sounding like some barked order.

His ribs protested the moment he tilted and he hissed slightly. Sherlock must have misunderstood the noise because he slowed even more, his tongue becoming cautious.

He couldn't sit up.

_"How long can you last?"_

Stupid.

Trying to shake the voice away, John stared at the ceiling, feeling vaguely baffled by himself. He'd had sex before and since the whole thing with Taylor. He hadn't had nightmares or any issue with sexual partners so why now?

It was in his head. Too aware of it, he thought with some disgust at himself as he reached down a hand to stroke Sherlock's hair carefully. He just needed to push through and relax. It wasn't as if he had been hurt or injured, wasn't even as if he had screamed or begged with Taylor.

Sherlock pulled back and John stirred, looking down to flash him a smile. Sherlock did not look amused.

The words 'it's fine' were threatening and John bit his lip to keep it in. Instead he scrubbed a hand over his face and groaned into it.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

John let out a long breath. "Every time I've done this I've missed you or…tried to avoid thinking about you or…" he waved a dismissive hand. "Engaged in sex that didn't give me a chance to think about you. I wanted to see…" he trailed off and waved a hand at his chest, hoping it was enough explanation.

"There are better positions if you wish to look at me. You could ask."

John nodded. "Yeah, I know. Just…feels a bit weird to haggle over positions. We never had a problem with it before."

Sherlock seemed to consider that as he dropped down next to John and stared at the ceiling. "You are thinking about it too much," he said eventually. "If I dislike you telling me what to do then I will object. Loudly."

"I know that," John said softly, turning his head to Sherlock. "It's just…frustrating. Everything else is good right now. Why can't this…"

Sherlock hummed at that. "We've worked on other things," he said thoughtfully. "We've not discussed this. Not really."

True, but God almighty was John happy with not discussing this.

"Why didn't you have sex?" he asked Sherlock abruptly.

"I…" Sherlock frowned at the ceiling. "Too complicated. I had most of the data I needed and…" Sherlock shook his head and then turned to John. "It would have made me think of you."

"Sensible," John murmured.

Sherlock gave him a look as if to ask what else could it possibly be. "Why did you suddenly decide to become promiscuous?" Sherlock asked. "You weren't before."

"Dunno," John answered honestly. "Seemed like the thing to do and then…it seemed like a way to stop thinking and wondering."

They lay together silently, each seemingly lost in their own thoughts.

"What was your last sexual encounter?" Sherlock asked.

"Toilet," John answered without much inflection. "Held onto the toilet tank while someone fucked me."

Sherlock drew in a long breath. "Name?"

Christ what had the name been? The guy had objected to their encounters, had made mutterings about not meeting John for a quick shag anymore and John had brushed it off.

Looking back on it, he'd been a fucking arsehole.

"No idea," John said honestly. "He didn't think it was healthy, what I was doing. And there were a few girls, a nurse, another officer…" John shrugged. "Never had a problem with them."

As he said it, he wished he could swallow back the words and rearrange them until they actually sounded the way he had meant them too, but Sherlock merely nodded, seeing the meanings behind the poorly phrased words. "I suppose I should take that as a compliment," Sherlock decided slowly. "And your first encounter after Taylor?"

"No problems," John said slowly. "I told you, I pulled out when I wanted to leave. They never raised…" he trailed off as his mind turned to Moran and Moriarty's words.

"You dislike being restrained," Sherlock informed him. "Blindfolds, games, tests, all of those make you stiffen in concern. You want either rough or gentle, no inbetween and if I start to go rougher then you disengage emotionally. Slow gives you time to overthink things and you start to worry."

John turned properly to Sherlock. After a beat he sat up, hissing at the pain in his ribs as he did so.

"John," Sherlock's voice warned.

"Not going anywhere," John said, dropping his head as he rubbed at his temple. "Just…" he shook his head, not really sure what he wanted to say.

The bed creaked as Sherlock sat up with him, laying his chin on John's shoulder as he sat behind him. "Perhaps pointing this out to you before we had sex was a mistake," he said thoughtfully.

"No," John sighed. "Perhaps me shagging anything with a pulse was a mistake," he corrected, tipping his head back to Sherlock's shoulder and exposing a tempting expanse of neck. "You okay? I mean…need a hand?"

Sherlock shook his head.

Then: "May I try something?"

John nodded and settled as Sherlock slipped his hands back down to John's dick again, his arms and torso creating a comforting chair for John.

"I missed you," Sherlock whispered in his ear. "I missed the weight of you," he added, his fingers starting to stroke gently. "Your smell. Your eyes and the way they change in the light. You have the most frustrating eyes to define."

"Says you," John breathed, trying not to nestle back.

"And your lips," Sherlock added, craning his neck to capture them. "I could kiss you for years."

John hummed in agreement, kissing back fiercely as he felt himself start to unwind. Sherlock's hand twisted wickedly and he groaned-

"And the noises you make," Sherlock added against his lips, the words a brush upon John's skin. "Gasps and groans-"

_Hand over his mouth._

_Fucking sing for me-_

John shook his head and the hand on his dick stilled as Sherlock dropped to lean on John's shoulder.

"Sherlock-"

But Sherlock's hands were flexing on John's knees as if he were trying to get himself back under control.

"I'm thinking too much," John murmured.

Sherlock drew in breath, as if about to speak and then made an annoyed noise and stood up, reaching to find his shirt.

"Sherlock-"

There was no response.

"Sherlock-"

"What?" Sherlock snarled. "Shall we have another conversation about how you weren't raped because you were able to walk away and say no eventually? Or shall we have another conversation about you just wanting to burn off stress? Or the fact that sex is so muddled in your head that if we have it in the next decade I'll be amazed."

John had no idea how to respond. Confused, he watched Sherlock dress.

Then slow.

And stop.

Sherlock was standing in middle of the room, his shirt mostly buttoned as he stared at the rug. "I want to fix this," Sherlock complained. "It's…frustrating."

"I know," John said gently.

"I want…we used to laugh," Sherlock sighed. "You were the first person I ever laughed with during sex, the first person I ever…" he looked away. "I despise that I don't know how to touch you to make this work."

John scooted over the bed to be as close he could to Sherlock. "It's not that…or you," John confessed. "I…mixing sex and love is tricky…I spent a year trying to separate the two."

Sherlock bowed his head to John's and they stayed like that for an age, breathing each other in and trying to work it out in their own heads.

Eventually, John pulled back and held out a hand to Sherlock.

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock took the hand. "What?"

"Come and have a massage," John offered, pulling at him. "You can laugh at my shite skills as I try to do it from the side."

"How tempting," Sherlock huffed, even as he allowed himself to be manoeuvred. "Your idea then is to-"

"Over thinking it," John warned.

Sherlock flopped down on the bed, his distaste for the idea clear. "Overthinking it," he muttered to the pillow. "Only you could get me to even consider that there could be such a thing."

"I'll take that compliment," John decided as he settled to the side and leaned forward carefully, pleased at the signs that his ribs really were on the way to recovery.

"It wasn't intended as such," Sherlock said, voice muffled.

* * *

The nightmare came in the early hours of the morning and had John sitting up straight in bed, panting away the memories.

It took a while for the soothing hand on his back to register as he bent forward, trying to scramble for control.

"Taylor?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Leg," John replied, lifting the covers to reassure himself that everything was fine. Sherlock stayed silent, as if trying to work out the logic.

"Do you want the light?" Sherlock asked after a moment.

No. John shook his head, knowing that Sherlock could see him in the half light as dawn approached.

The bed jostled as Sherlock slid out and padded off down the hall. The kitchen light poured through the door after a moment and John winced at it as he rubbed a hand down his thigh.

He'd accepted it.

When he'd been in the desert, staring up at the sun, his mouth dry as a bone and everything pounding with pain, he'd accepted that was it. That all of his mistakes and poor decisions had led to him bleeding out in the sand until the sun bleached him into the landscape, not even a stain left behind.

Who wanted to deal with that?

Fuck, that was being so unfair to Sherlock, but there were times that John felt he was just a huge bundle of issues and scars. There were moments, sometimes lasting for days or weeks on end in which he felt together, at ease with the world and pleased with his place within it.

And then…

Probably should have stayed there.

"Stayed where?" Sherlock asked as he returned with a steaming mug of tea.

Self-deprecation was boring. Reaching out for the tea, John shook his head. "Thinking out loud," he excused as Sherlock sat down next to him. "Do you ever wonder…how differently life could have gone?"

Sherlock was silent. "Stayed where?" he asked again.

John mentally replayed his thoughts, trying to think of a way to phrase it that didn't sound…

"I need help," he said softly, surprising himself even as he said the words.

"I think so," Sherlock said, equally careful.

John let out a wobbly breath and leaned against Sherlock. "You do realise you're marrying a nutter?"

"Do you?" Sherlock retorted.

* * *

Sherlock watched John sleep, finally.

He despised how they were in bed at the moment. Walking on egg shells, waiting for the latest problem to reveal itself; it was hateful. Their sex life had never been problematic before and it made Sherlock ache with envy to see other, far worse suited couples so at ease with each other.

But then…

Sherlock tilted his head as he watched John curl in closer.

John had made him laugh during sex, had shown him that having emotion involved was fun and made the physical act…more. If he were going to complain about their sex life at the moment then perhaps he should accept that there was a way to solve it.

He could do for John what John had done for him years ago.

And with that, Sherlock started to plot.

* * *

"John."

The moron batted him away and huffed. "Fuck off," came the pleasant, sleep slurred response.

Unimpressed, Sherlock tugged at his arm, careful not to pull on John's injured side. "I have a plan," he explained, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

"Great," John muttered. "Sleeping. Go away."

"John," Sherlock huffed as he dropped John's arm and glared down. "I need to do an experiment."

John cracked an eye open warily. It was amusing to watch him weigh up the likely dangers of returning to an unconscious state while Sherlock indulged his curiosities.

"I'm up," John decided, sitting up carefully, even as his hair stuck up wildly, as if volunteering its owner for business. "What do you want?"

"Come with me," Sherlock ordered, tugging at his hand again before sliding off the bed. Behind him he could hear John sigh and then the covers moved as John followed him off the bed and out the bedroom.

As he approached the bathroom, Sherlock stripped off the t-shirt he'd been wearing and tossed it to the side. When he looked back, John had stopped and was frowning at the shirt.

"See, why is it that never happens in your bedroom yet you feel you can treat the rest of the flat like a rubbish tip?"

Sherlock leaned against the door, smirking. "Have a shower with me," he offered.

There was a flicker of something that wasn't quite as strong as annoyance but was in danger of getting there eventually. "Sherlock-"

"Just a shower. Together," Sherlock specified. "You smell."

He knew he'd won when he saw John's lips twitch in amusement. With a sigh, John walked forward and started to undress.

The shower wasn't quite Sherlock's preferred temperature; he preferred it to be slightly cooler so he could think easily while John liked to attempt to scald himself, something Sherlock was sure had more to do with his shoulder injury now. Satisfied that he'd found a happy medium, Sherlock turned to John as he got into the shower.

And reached out a hand to shove John's head under the water as it poured down.

He was careful not to leave his hand upon John's head, trying to avoid any associations with what had happened at the pool. John spluttered water and instantly waved his hand through it, spraying some back at Sherlock.

"You bloody git," John muttered as he wiped his face to rid it of excess water.

"We're having a shower, John," Sherlock said with false sincerity. "You have to get wet."

John laughed, his shoulders relaxed and looking at perfect ease with the world as he reached for Sherlock, pulling him down into an easy kiss.

He felt John's intention through the slight snigger laughed into their kiss as John pulled him straight into the water's downpour. Refusing to give in, Sherlock continued to kiss John, fascinated by the way the water changed the texture of the kiss.

It had been years since they had done this.

In the end, John pulled away with a strangled laugh as the water crept in through the slight gaps between their lips and Sherlock tipped his head back, enjoying the water and trying not to watch him too closely.

"Christ I'd forgotten how you look in the shower," John muttered, a hand reaching out to Sherlock's chest. Curious hands traced his body; their first time this naked with each other in far too long.

Sherlock smoothed his hands along John's shoulders, part of him remembering John before he had filled out, been younger and unmarred. Not as interesting or substantial, Sherlock thought when reminded of the past.

The man in front of him now was far more confident, far more equipped to weather a storm with Sherlock.

Not wanting to turn it into something too serious as he'd made that mistake far too often, Sherlock reached for the soap and handed it to John. "Attempt to make this into a useful endeavour," he suggested.

John rolled his eyes and stepped around to Sherlock's back. "You're not going to ask me to drop the soap?"

"I wouldn't," Sherlock chided. "My mother bought that soap and-"

"Don't talk about your mother while we're having a naked shower."

"As opposed to a clothed shower?" Sherlock asked, shaking his head at the stupidity of the sentence.

A wet smack resounded as John hit his back playfully. "You know what I meant; there are cleaning showers and naked showers."

"If you say so," Sherlock muttered, trying not to groan too loudly in appreciation as John started to rub the soap in. He smiled at the sensation of a quick, fond kiss pressed between his shoulders.

In the distance, barely audible over the sound of the water, a ring tone started to sound out.

A ring tone for an unknown number.

Case?

"Is that the phone?" John asked, his hand pausing.

"No," Sherlock lied, stretching out pointedly. "Stop trying to get out of this."

John sighed. "I suppose I'd best get used to this," he said as his soothing strokes continued. "In a few years you'll be complaining of bad backs, all those things that come with old age-"

"You are hardly that much younger than me," Sherlock huffed as he leaned his arms on the tiles and let himself just enjoy the touch.

"Five years is a long time," John teased, his hands slipping now to Sherlock's lower back. "You'll be demanding a sponge bath every day."

"Is that not part of the point of marriage? To have a loving spouse willing to rub your back?"

John laughed. "That wasn't part of your marriage proposal," he countered.

"No-one adds that in," Sherlock sighed. "Please will you stay with me until I die, watch as I grow old, wrinkled and incontinent. Argue with me over what meal we'll have and whose fault it is that the cheese is growing mouldy at the back of the fridge. Rub my back when I start to hunch over and endure cold feet in the bed."

"You don't have cold feet," John mused.

"One of us does," Sherlock mumbled as John found a particular ache at the base of his spine.

"I'd have said yes, even if you'd have asked it like that."

Sherlock lifted his head, oddly touched by the sentiment.

"Besides," John added, seeming oblivious. "You don't really care about what we eat or the food in the fridge and if you hunch it might mean my back will be spared from having to look up at you."

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. "As long as there is a bright side," he sighed.

"Mm," John said, his hands slowing as they drifted lower.

A shiver of anticipation ran over Sherlock. Not so much because he hoped for something sexual but more due to curiosity of seeing what John would do.

Taking him out of the typical bed situation seemed to have worked wonders so far.

John still hadn't said anything; his hands still smoothing over Sherlock's arse with the soap in gentle circles. It felt as if he were thinking or considering something and Sherlock lay his head back on his hands, trying to let John work through whatever it was in his head and simply enjoy the touch.

Then the angle of John's hands changed and Sherlock clenched his hands on the tiles as John knelt behind him.

No.

He'd wanted to touch John, he'd wanted to…he'd wanted John to be relaxed so that when it was Sherlock's turn to wash him John would be receptive or…

John's hands spread Sherlock's cheeks and then-

It had been so long since someone had touched him sexually. The last time had been John and that had been far, far too long ago. It was stunning how much he suddenly ached for more; as if the urge had been fully awoken the moment he was reminded just how good it could feel.

John was on his knees. His ribs, the position…Sherlock wasn't entirely sure it was such a good idea to-

Stop thinking, he scolded himself. John had shown no fear or worry when stopping before; a fact that Sherlock could only be immensely grateful for as it meant he could trust John not to push himself too far.

He had to trust John.

And the tongue pressing into him was doing wicked, sinful things that made his cock ache for some friction. Stubbornly determined, he kept his hands on the tiles, letting John have full control. But the bastard seemed determined to torture him as John's hands smoothed along Sherlock's thigh and hips.

"You really are being lazy," John decided, pulling away slightly.

Sherlock opened eyes he hadn't realised he had closed and stared at the water streaked tiles. "How lazy do you want to be when it's your turn?" he asked.

John nipped at his arse playfully and Sherlock could feel John's hair brush Sherlock's skin. "I'm injured," John reminded him, even as his hands snaked around and brushed against Sherlock tentatively.

Images of John, years ago, watching Sherlock with huge awed eyes as Sherlock swallowed him down made Sherlock ache with want. It had been so long since they had been tentative with each other, since they had been forced to learn each other's skin. A rare benefit, Sherlock thought, was that they had the flare of a new romance again.

He looked down, watching as John's hand wrapped around his cock and opened his mouth in a breathless gasp as John's mouth and tongue descended on him once more.

"Boys," a voice called up. "You have another one."

John stopped, his hand pausing and his mouth pulling away-

"If you even think about stopping for any other reason than injury or death then I will never forgive you," Sherlock hissed.

John laughed and pulled at his hips. "Mrs Hudson is bloody close," he warned even as he restarted his efforts.

"I couldn't care if a brass band came marching in," Sherlock hissed as his fingers tightened against the tiles, that wonderful wave of pleasure starting to build in his stomach.

"Sherlock?" that evil voice shouted. "It's a client."

John turned his head-

"Death or injury," Sherlock snarled, desperate not to lose that feeling.

The tongue returned and the hand on his cock turned sinfully perfect and-

Sherlock clenched his teeth together, fighting the urge to gasp or moan; the fact that he knew he needed to making it even harder to swallow back the noises he wanted to make. The world screeched and shuddered and stopped for a moment.

And then he was too sensitive, pulling away from John's hands and turning to look down at his lover.

Who looked pleased with himself.

Thudding his head back against the tiles, Sherlock stared down at John. "Think we have enough time for reciprocation?"

John opened his mouth.

"Sherlock? Are you in the shower?" Mrs Hudson called as she knocked on the door.

John grinned. "Possibly not."

* * *

"Not decent," Mrs Hudson was muttering as they stepped out: John in his dressing gown and Sherlock in a towel. "It's nine forty in the morning-"

Sherlock blinked at that. "It's a good job Mycroft paid the water and heating bill last month," he muttered to John as they walked into the lounge.

John flashed him a grin and Sherlock felt something in him ease at the sight of John looking so…

Young?

Happy?

In love?

Stopping in front of the client, Sherlock glared down at the man who had dared to interrupt his most ingenious plan of the week. "Be quick and don't be boring," he instructed, folding his arms.

The man gaped at both him and John. "I…Oh," he said, his eyes widening. "I thought…you live here?"

Sherlock stared at him a moment and then turned to Mrs Hudson with some disbelief.

"I think my car might have killed someone."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

It was surely not possible to have a client so moronic-

"Why don't you walk us through it," John suggested in a gentle tone. "All the facts, from the start?"

Sherlock opened his eyes in time to see the man nod, clearly relieved to have some instructions.

"His car?" Sherlock breathed at John as they all moved to take a seat.

"You yelled at your last client," John murmured softly. "You can't yell at them all. Pick and choose, Sherlock."

Sherlock glared at the ceiling for a moment before following John back into the living area

* * *

In the end sending Andy was a waste of time. Part of Sherlock had hoped that he could get John to finish their shower but the moron client, had seemed terrified of stepping out the door, as if the police would be waiting for him the moment he left the sanctuary of 221b Baker Street.

Though it was somewhat gratifying to know that he thought Sherlock had far more power with Scotland Yard than he did.

But the fact remained that John refused to get back in the shower while Phil was around. Or retire to the bedroom, despite the fact that Sherlock refused to get dressed.

Sherlock had never hated a client more.

"Is there a point to this?" Andy asked on the screen as he made his way down the field to the stream. "I thought you said you weren't leaving the flat because you had a chance of a shag?"

Sherlock just about heard Inspector Carter mutter under his breath off screen. "John thinks it's rude while we have a guest," he muttered. "I'd argue that as the guest wasn't invited we shouldn't have to change our plans-"

John, fully dressed, hit him with a cushion as he walked by. "Get dressed," John sighed at him. "It's not happening."

"Bad luck," Andy said with a grin as John asked if Phil wanted more tea.

"Show me the stream," Sherlock ordered, pointedly trying to ignore the situation.

"And when did you start thinking of me as your lackey? I thought you had John for that?"

Sherlock smirked as he felt the glare from John. "I simply obeyed their summons; they did ask for my best man."

Andy stopped.

"Seriously?" he asked, a grin appearing on his face.

Behind Sherlock, he heard John snigger. "Well he's going to enjoy the next few months," John said.

The bell rang.

Again.

"Oh good, it's probably more morons come over to visit. John, do put the kettle on," Sherlock huffed. "Go back to the body," he ordered Andy.

"I'm your best man?" Andy asked still looking delighted as he walked. Behind him, Inspector Carter looked as if he were in pain. "So your stag do-"

Ah.

He had not thought that through.

Turning in his seat, Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John.

"I'm not helping you," John said, handing a coffee to Phil. "Not until you get dressed."

Sulking, Sherlock spun back to the laptop just in time to hear Inspector Carter's opinion of the case. "Pass me to him," he ordered Andy.

"I don't think that's wise," Andy decided as he continued to walk.

"And that has stopped you when?" Sherlock inquired. "You cannot honestly think Phil is a suspect," he added.

The doorbell rang again and John sighed, walking to the door and then disappearing through it.

"Did you see him?" Sherlock continued, "Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy – and you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?!" Amused by the idea, Sherlock turned to Phil who was looking taken aback as if Sherlock's words were new information.

"Don't worry," Sherlock said, spotting his worried look. "I'll-

There were extra footsteps on the stairs.

Someone was with John.

Ignoring Carter as he started to whine about something irrelevant to the case, Sherlock turned as John re-entered the room with…

He let his eyes drift over them, trying to establish any threat and raised an eyebrow as one walked straight in the direction of his room.

Mycroft had sent them but they weren't his usual minions. These were…

Ah.

Interesting.

Far more interesting than the idiotic case that had interrupted his morning.

One of the men from Buckingham Palace shut the lid of Sherlock's laptop. Across from him, John caught his eye, standing very still.

Sherlock shook his head minutely.

Hardly a threat.

John visibly relaxed, even as the man returned with Sherlock's clothes.

"Get dressed, Mr Holmes," one ordered as the clothes were placed on top of the shut lap top. "Where you're going, you'll want your clothes."

Sherlock looked up and shook his head. "I'm fine," he said with a smirk.

"Oh God," John groaned, rubbing at his face. "We're going to see Mycroft, aren't we?" he complained looking up at the heavens as if for help. "He's the only person you'd try and piss off like this."

"That and you," Sherlock said sweetly as he stood. "Next time," he warned. "Get back in the shower."

"Get an office," John suggested looking unrepentant. "They'd have just barged in mid…" he trailed off and looked uncomfortable as if suddenly remembering their audience. "Get dressed," he said with a slight plea in his voice.

"I'm merely preparing you for married life, John," Sherlock called as he walked to the landing and started down the stairs.

"You're marrying him?" Sherlock heard one of the men ask in disbelief.

"Yeah," John said, still sounding pleased about it.

Sherlock dropped his smile at the bottom of the stairs.

Bugger that stupid boomerang and ridiculous client.

* * *

Next chapter: For better or worse


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